


Vagabond: Origins

by rage_quitter



Series: Immortal FAHC Origin Stories [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Immortality, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4165644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rage_quitter/pseuds/rage_quitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan’s the oldest by far, having seen the Roman monarchy rise and fall from the small group Remus and Romulus began it with, then the Republic, the empire. He still harbors respect for his Roman gods, whom he believes are the cause of the immortality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vagabond: Origins

“Iacomus!”

The shepherd looked up at the shout from where he was guarding his flock of sheep. His trusted dog growled beside him. Iacomus shushed the animal. “Romulus? What are you doing here? Where is Remus?”

His fellow shepherd, an old friend, was breathing hard from his mad chase up the rolling hills to catch Iacomus. He looked angry, hatred burning in his eyes. “Remus has been captured,” Romulus said breathlessly.

“Captured?” Iacomus couldn’t believe it. “Why? Who has he wronged?”

“We were tending to our flock when the damned shepherds of Amulius starting striking up trouble,” Romulus explained. “You know Remus; he can’t avoid a skirmish. He wildly underestimated them and was brought to the king.”

Iacomus’s heart was in his throat. “Di immortales,” he murmured. His fingers tightened on his shepherd’s crook.

“You must come help me,” Romulus pleaded. “I must get my brother back before Amulius can- can-” Romulus gulped. “Only the gods may know what Amulius would do.”

Iacomus looked out over his sheep. He couldn’t bear to think what may be happening to his friend. “Very well. Give me time to round my flock and find my sword. Good thing my father had the foresight to show me how to use it,” he joked weakly.

Romulus gave a faint smile. “Meet me at the house of my father at sundown,” he said. “I must go and ask others to help.”

“The gods on your side,” Iacomus replied, touching Romulus lightly on the shoulder. The shepherd bowed his head before running down the slope to where Iacomus could now see his family’s horse tied to a tree.

Iacomus grimly whistled for the dog to begin rounding the sheep. The dog seemed a little confused as to why they were rounding the flock so soon, but complied none the less. Within the hour they had the sheep penned up behind Iacomus’s house.

“Iacomus, what in the name of the gods are you doing?”

The voice was sweet, but angry. Iacomus turned guiltily to face his wife. “My dear,” he said, “there is trouble. You know our friend and neighbor, Remus, son of Faustulus.”

“Of course I do.”

“He has been taken by Amulius.”

Her hands flew to her mouth in horror.

“Romulus has asked me to assist in his rescue. I am to meet him at his father’s house at sundown.” Iacomus stepped up to his wife and placed a light kiss on her forehead.

“You’ll be killed,” she said softly. “You can’t fight a king.”

“He is my friend,” Iacomus replied. “I can’t leave him to rot in the prison of a horrible ruler. I must help him.”

“The king will have soldiers, trained in battle, armed to the teeth!” Her eyes sparkled with frightened tears.

“You doubt my abilities?” Iacomus smiled weakly. He let himself into the house to search for the short sword his late father had given to him. She followed him, anxious hands on her stomach, protruding from her dress with child. He found it, and gave the familiar tool an experimental swing. Satisfied, he hunted for its sheath and set it at his waist. He took with him also a knife.

“I can’t convince you not to go,” She said sadly. “He is a dear friend. Come here, love.” She led him to the drying rack of herbs and plucked a few bundles. She showed each to Iacomus and explained what it was. They were medicines, herbs that grew rampant in the region. He would likely be able to find more if he found himself or a friend hurt. He memorized her every word, the seriousness of the situation settling uncomfortably in his gut. As she packed them in a sack, he looked out the window to see the sun beginning to dip to the horizon.

“My love,” he said. “Sol is retiring. I must go. I will return as soon as I can.”

“The gods be with you,” she said, tears glimmering in her eyes again. She was swept into a loving embrace, a frantic kiss pressed to her lips, and with a final farewell, he was mounting his horse and cantering to the home of Faustulus.

Romulus was outside with over a dozen other men. Most of them were shepherds, but there were farmers and even a soldier or two who had left the service when Amulius took over. Romulus looked relieved to see Iacomus and helped him tie his horse with the others. If he were to die, it would be sent back to his wife, who would take over their estate until Iacomus’s older brother could come and help her find a new husband, should she chose to do so. Iacomus really didn’t want that to happen.

Romulus gathered the men in front of the house. “Friends,” he began, “You know why you are here. My brother Remus has been unjustly imprisoned by Amulius. We are going to rescue him.”

The men were quiet, but determined. They were bound by their friendship and their dislike for the king. Romulus explained how they were to break into the king’s fortress. They would be subtle, assassinating each guard and sneaking their way through to the prison until they could break out Remus.

With the plan told and each man armed, they mounted their horses and galloped for the fortress of the king.

It was a blurry battle, in retrospect, for Iacomus. He had killed people before, sure; crooks and thieves breaking into his house, trying to steal his sheep. But never before had he found himself creeping up behind a man, wrapping his fingers around his lips, and slitting his throat. He let the body slump to the floor and shoved him behind a tapestry. He didn’t look back, didn’t think twice. Romulus’s plan was working, he thought, as they snuck their way to the prison cells.

Remus was huddled in a cell, looking horrible for a man who spent only a few days there. His hair was matted from his fingers and there was a haunted look in his dark eyes.

The reunion between the brothers was brief and bittersweet. Iacomus hunted for the keys to the cell, listening to them talk in hushed whispers.

“Brother, are you all right?”

“Romulus, I… what I have learned in these past few days…. you would never believe me.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“We are royalty, brother. Royalty! Children of the gods!” Remus let out a hoarse laugh, clinging to Romulus’s wrists through the bars of the cell. “Mars, of all the gods, is our father!”

“But…” Romulus faltered. He knew he and Remus were adopted, of course; they, with their dark hair and olive skin and sharp features, looked much different from their more fair haired and soft-faced family. “How is that possible?”

Iacomus found the keys at last. He listened to Remus delve in detail as he unlocked the cell, explaining how they were destined to kill Amulius and retake the throne for their grandfather, the king Numitor, who had been imprisoned by his brother years ago. Their mother had been impregnated while in solitude by the god Mars, and a servant with a kind heart left the twins in a basket in the river rather than killing them as ordered.

Romulus helped Remus to his feet. Iacomus handed him his sword. “Here, Remus. You need this more than I do… my lord.”

Remus laughed. “Iacomus, my friend, there’s no need of such formalities! We’re not out of the water yet. We must kill Amulius and take back our kingdom!”

“You’re weak, Remus,” Romulus said. “Let’s just leave and get you food and rest.”

Remus shook his head. “No! We have to do it now! Romulus, please.” His eyes were fervent, a fire in them that looked slightly deranged. “We can do it, brother. The gods are on our side. I can feel them!”

Romulus gave Iacomus a helpless look. “I can’t offer anything but my services and loyalty in whatever you choose to do,” he said, raising his hands, red with the dried blood of the guards.

“Romulus,” Remus urged, gripping his brother’s biceps. “We must not let that tyrant live another day.”

Romulus bowed his head. “I trust you. We will attack the king and reclaim our throne.”

How they succeeded was beyond Iacomus. He fought with the strength of a bull, Romulus told him later, with only his knife. There were a mere twenty untrained men fighting against the king’s entire guard, and not one man was lost.

With the exception of Iacomus himself.

At some point during the fight, Iacomus found himself chasing two guards down a corridor away from the thick of the battle. His garbs were bloody and he had a slash on his face from a sword, but kept after the men, his sandals pounding on the ground.

He’d finally caught up to one of them and stabbed him in the back, slipping his blade between the man’s ribs. The guard cried out as Iacomus yanked out the knife and fell bleeding to the floor. The other guard whirled around, eyes wide and face pale. He murmured a prayer to the gods.

Iacomus didn’t give him time to finish praying before he pounced on the man. It was only after the guard was dead did he realize that the guard had gotten in a jab of his own.

The wound was deep, in Iacomus’s stomach. He felt more dizzy than pain, though it certainly hurt. He clung to his knife, watching blood blossom on his ruined robes.

“That isn’t good,” he gasped to himself. “Oh, gods.” He slumped over and the world was black before he hit the floor.

How much time passed, Iacomus didn’t know for sure. When he came to, he was outside of the fortress, laying on his back on the ground, his knife in one hand and his wounds healed. With a groan he sat up and looked around him in confusion. Had someone dragged him out here? There were no bloodstains on the ground. He lifted his robe to stare at his stomach. Where there had been a gaping wound in his gut, there was now a silvery scar. It didn’t look like the white scars that faded over time; it was like the tissue was made of moonlight. Iacomus looked up at the sky, but the moon was far away and hardly a half. “Lady Diana, if this is your doing,” he murmured, “I thank you. If it be that of another god, be it Mars, the patron of my friends whom I have sworn to protect, or another, I give my gratitude.”

He had to get back in now, and finish the battle. He scrambled to his feet and raced back to the building. He found his way back inside in time to tackle a particularly muscular guard off of Romulus. Amulius’s men were falling quickly, and the king looked afraid as he cowered on his throne. Iacomus was sickened by the sight of such a cowardly monarch.

He stabbed the guard, four times, five to be sure, and stood up to find another guard to attack. At that moment, Remus and Romulus, together, dragged the king down from the throne and ripped the crown from his head. They stabbed him, Remus in the back, Romulus in the front, in his chest.

With the dead king’s body slumping to the floor, the fight was over.

Iacomus had no time, not then, and never after, to mention to Remus and Romulus his resurrection, if that’s what it had been. The true king was released and reclaimed his crown, and celebration took over the land. Iacomus was moved from a lowly shepherd to a nobleman and was soon the father of a beautiful baby boy.

It was almost easy to forget what had happened, and sometimes he thought he was imagining it. But he saw that silvery scar on his stomach, for years after, never fading, never changing. She asked about it, once. He told her it was from the battle, which wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t as bad as it seemed, which was.

Shortly after the battle, Remus and Romulus decided to establish a new city. But the issue was, who would be king? All agreed that it should be one of the brothers. Remus claimed the view on the Aventine Hill was lovely, but Romulus said the Palatine Hill would be easier to defend. They consulted the gods. Iacomus remained with Romulus that night. He saw the same twelve birds overhead, but after Remus had reported seeing six. Who was the true heir? In anger, Romulus dug a trench around the hill.

Remus thought his brother was being ridiculous. Both men had a claim to the throne and a sign from the gods. Iacomus was horrified when he found out later that Romulus had killed Remus. It wasn’t unusual, for brothers to turn on each other. Romulus confided in him that he believed Mars, his father, had taken over him in that moment. He had Remus buried with the funeral deserving of a king.

The city was named Rome. Iacomus, though he did not know at the time, would watch it rise to become the most powerful empire in the world. For now, it was a fairly small town on a hill. He was selected as a Patrician, one of the one hundred noblemen who acted as Romulus’s council. He was one of the youngest, but most respected, as a long time friend of Romulus.

The city exploded quickly. Over the years, Rome went from being tents pitched in the wilderness to a bustling city occupying five of the nearby hills. But for all it was, it had few women. Iacomus had his wife, of course, but since so many immigrants were men, he was afraid for her. Romulus’s decision to kidnap the daughters of neighboring tribes through trickery and deception horrified Iacomus, and he privately wondered if he was getting in over his head.

It was during the battle between Rome and the Sabines that it happened again. Iacomus was ordered to fight, and at some point found himself staring down an arrow. It lodged between his eyes. He woke up sometime later, right in the middle of a skirmish a mile away, terrifying everyone.

He hid in the woods for weeks after that, avoiding the Romans and the Sabines, feasting on whatever he could catch with his knife, which he had grown fond of using. He died a third time, eating a bad mushroom, and woke scarily close to a Roman camp. It was only after the battle was over, a truce struck between the two parties, that he dared return. He snuck home in the middle of the night.

His wife was frightened to see him, thinking him killed on the battlefield. He shushed her quickly.

“Oh, my love,” He told her. “I… I am so afraid of what is happening to me.” He told her honestly of the scar, of returning to life from a mortal wound. He told her of his more recent deaths. “I don’t know what god or monster has done this. The first time, I assumed it was a gift, from Mars, perhaps, for supporting his children, but I don’t know anymore. Thrice I’ve been killed, and returned to life. I heal so quickly from wounds that should take weeks to recover from. I’ve not aged a day since that first night.”

She held him through the night while he cried and prayed to the gods to explain what was happening, reassuring him that she loved him, that no matter what, she would do what she could to help.

Romulus believed him dead. They could not find Iacomus’s body, but there was a funeral. Iacomus attended it, wearing a cloth over his face.

He exiled himself, turning to thefts and trickery to get money and food. He returned to his home each night to his wife and his children, who were confused, but Father was okay, he simply wants us to keep it quiet that he is. She refused to remarry, so Iacomus’s older brother supported her financially. Romulus aided as well.

Living a life as a street rat, a thief, was dangerous. Iacomus grew colder the more times he died, became more careful about things, more guarded with whom he trusted. He hid this from his wife, but suspected she knew that he was changing.

He ached, watching his children grow, his wife’s soft hair turn gray and brittle, everyone around him age and grow and die.

The day his love died, he left Rome. He stole a horse, packed a bag of supplies, his knife at his side, and left. He went north and roamed in the wilderness for years. His horse died after some time. He travelled on foot after that. He died over and over, a few times of his own doing, cursing the gods, cursing himself. He grew used to covering his face, to the cold look in his pale blue eyes when he passed by a reflective surface, to the people who shrank back from him when he visited a town or a village. There were rumors of a god, a man who could not be killed, that were whispered in the shadows, a man who hid his face and fought with nothing but a knife and his bare hands. He grew careless, angry, wishing he could die and stay dead. He’d go to the damned underworld himself and plead with Pluto to smite him then and there, give him rest, let him stay with his love. He’d grovel on his knees and give up anything for that.

He watched from the sidelines as Rome grew into a glittering city. Anger simmered in his veins. He was one of the founding members of Rome. He should be at the top. He was a god. If he had to suffer, he decided one day, with this curse of immortality, by the gods he would do it his own way. He returned to Rome and swindled his way to the top. He learned secrets, he spoke velvet, letting snakes and venom drip like honey from his lips, letting nothing stand in his way. Never to the crown,though, no, he didn’t want that.

Iacomus wanted to see people be human. To pray, something he stopped doing long ago, the day his wife was delivered to Pluto’s realm. To beg, to fight for their lives, to lie, to steal, to trick and be tricked, to be flawed and afraid. Iacomus made the right promises, knelt just right in the temples, entertained with a pleasing grin and cheerful conversation. He was never quite well known, but never ignored unless he wished it so. He changed his name so many times he could barely remember what his true name was at times.

The kings were dismantled, and a republic rose in its place. He, too, played a part, delivering the proper information to the proper people and spinning a few little lies. It was never noticed by historians. He served over and over again in the Senate, edging his country to war, to conquest. He was heartless and he was adored.

He never loved a woman again.

There was the empire, and Caesar Augustus wasn’t a terrible man. A greedy bastard, but overall fair and just. Christianity blossomed sometime. He assisted in writing bits of the Bible, not knowing just how enormous the faith would become.

He traveled the world when he wasn’t changing the flow of power throughout it. As time went on, and power changed and Rome finally fell, he assimilated, as he had been doing for centuries. He was trained by the most influential artists of all time, shook hands with religious figures, learned to speak dozens of languages, was taught how to fight with every weapon he laid eyes on.

Iacomus had a liking for English as it came around, and his name translated well. James was a popular name. It was the one he used upon meeting William Shakespeare, the one he introduced himself with to Queen Elizabeth the first.

When James wanted to live in power, he did. When he was content with peasantry, he found some cozy farm and sweet talked his landlords. He went to Germany, to China, to India, to Africa. He hated staying static. There was more, so much more. The thought of power had long left his mind. It lingered, that anger, that lust for destruction, that flared up each time he died, but a burning curiosity overpowered it. He had to learn. James wanted to know everything. He had all the time in the world to do it. He sought teachers and craftsman, politicians and royalty, the lowest nobody and the exiled criminals.

A new continent was discovered and by the gods, he wanted to be one of the first ones there. He accompanied Columbus, and was completely enamored by the native people. Columbus was a nasty man who ignored all of James’s warnings. He could do nothing to stop the genocide of the people. It devastated him. He went back later with the pilgrims, offering his translation services that were never mentioned in the history books. He watched America grow from a weak village to a small town, and before he knew it, there were people swarming the shores. It thrilled him, but the realization of the native people’s decline struck him too late. He couldn’t get involved. He had meddled with history enough. He kept to the shadows, the edges of town, blocking himself from the pain of others. He returned to his petty criminal days into the seventeen hundreds, and finally fought in the war against England, more for fun than any real allegiance. He was ecstatic by technology into the eighteen hundreds. Electricity, trains, the Industrial Revolution was incredible. He helped build the Empire State building and the Statue of Liberty.

James fell in with a small family once, and their young son was named Ryan. He was a charming child, a precious dear, who looked up to James and hung on his every word. James secretly told Ryan tales of ancient kings, of beautiful queens, of creatures and gods unlike anything he’d ever imagined.

James adored the child, reminded so bitterly of his son from millennia ago. He came back, time and time again, as Ryan grew older, telling him bits of history that he’d never learn otherwise, too poor, not the right color, to go to school. Ryan learned to read and write and do math and speak German and shoot a pistol and disarm a man.

Ryan was murdered when he was nineteen years old, going to visit his secret mentor who lived on the outskirts of town and hid his face from strangers. He was still alive when James found him, bleeding out. He would not come back to life, as he told James. What, how couldn’t I have figured out you’re immortal? You look the same as you did when I was a child. James told him his story in brief, broken sentences, the only person he’d ever confided in, and it nearly shattered him. Ryan listened, watching with dark eyes too sharp for a dying man. Carry on my name, he asked. I wanted to do great things. Let me live on.

James hunted down every member of the gang of racist rich kids who attacked him.

He joined the flow going west. He’d lived in deserts before, travelled over mountains and in wagons. It was still new. Tornadoes were horrible, dust storms were worse. He took on Ryan’s name as he forged his way to California. War came and went. He went to Canada, to Mexico, Brazil, Argentina, Peru. He wished he could’ve met the ancient Incas.

Ryan found comfort in crime. He didn’t kill without reason; he never harmed an innocent person. But there was satisfaction in choking to death a man who was touching a lady far too young, pickpocketing a drunken bastard cursing at people in the street, frightening politicians with the truths behind their lies into gaining political and monetary favors before vanishing from existence. He joined in the first World War. He had no idea how many times he died during that time. He went down on the Titanic. That water was horribly cold. He was amazed his abilities at returning to life extended so far; he found himself awake on the nearest flat patch of ice. He froze to death several times trying to get help. He was in World War Two and enjoyed that fight. He had once loved Germany, but their leaders were twisted and sick. Taking out such disgusting humans was satisfying, and returning Germany to the people was better. He was pleased to meet civil rights leaders and carried their voices to the Capital. He yelled at rallies, he threatened the lawmakers, he forced them to see what they needed to do, to give rights to people.

Ryan thought humanity would be boring. It was only if he let it. There was always something to fight for. Rarely his own battle, but the thoughts of the few people he’d ever loved reminded him to fight. He still wanted to know, to learn. He helped design the first computer and developed coding, better airplanes, better phones, better cars.

When he found them, it was all at once.

It was by then sometime in 2013. He was a criminal once more, sporting a leather jacket and more weapons than an army. He drove motorcycles too fast, crashed helicopters into buildings, ran from the cops in a stolen police car full of money from the bank he’d just robbed. He painted his face and wore masks, varying them each time. The Vagabond with a changing face, as he’d always been, and had never been.

He was hiding in plain sight in a city called Los Santos, where celebrities came to die and criminals to live. He was standing in a bank, wearing for once civilian clothes, the only thing hiding his face a pair of sunglasses and a black beanie to hide his long hair. There was a pistol in his sweatshirt. It would be a nearly silent heist, he planned. Until those three came blasting through the windows, firing automatic rifles every which way and laughing and shouting.

He got caught in the crossfire between them and the police. The red haired one noticed him waking up and fleeing. He had no idea how they hunted him down until he met their resident hacker.

They were like him, somehow. Afflicted with this ancient curse. Ryan was amazed, horrified, that other people could do what he did. He fell in with them, awkwardly at first, and then all at once, and they were untouchable, all powerful, and he was happy.

Iacomus was the man who built Rome and ripped it down. James was the man who cared nothing for humanity, just for knowledge, for nothing but the secrets of the universe. The Vagabond was a criminal who wore a black skull-shaped mask given to him by a new friend. Ryan was a man who fought for what was important, who stuck up for the little guy, who beat the shit out of the nasty people of the world and found the greatest friends in the world. He was a member of the Fake AH Crew.

**Author's Note:**

> The first of several origin stories for the Immortal FAHC. These will be posted in order of ages of the crew. You can read all of them and more now on Tumblr at immortal-fahc.tumblr.com


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